A Trip to Hell
by ThomE.Gemcity-06
Summary: DW: series2. SPN: season3/4. Dean goes to Hell, and after many years he runs into a man who calls himself 'the Doctor' in pessession of a little blue box. And he may just turn out to be Dean's savior.


**a/n: This fic is going to be AU on the appearance of Hell; it is what I think what Dean's personal Hell would be like—you know, kind of like the fact that in Supernatural, everyone had their own personal piece of Heaven.**

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><p><strong>A Trip to Hell<strong>

Dean knew that now was not the time to be thinking this; he was in Hell after all. Torn to shreds by an invisible Hellhound and sent to Hell for all of eternity—but seriously, how could he not be disappointed? He stood in darkness, the air hot and humid, there was no sound but his breath—but at the same time he feel could a draft, one that smelled stale and of dirt; like a cave or cavern.

This was definitely not what he was expecting; there was no blood, it wasn't crowded with tortured souls, there was not a Demon present—not that he's be able to see one if it was right in front of his face.

Dean outstretched his arms in front of him, waving his arms about, but it was just emptiness—all around him. He took a deep breath, despite the taste of the air and carefully took his first steps. He didn't want to walk off a ledge or something. And he didn't either, and he ran into no walls. Underfoot was sand and he could feel it shift under each step, but he couldn't seem to hear the crunch and that made it even harder to walk.

"Hello?" he called out, not able to handle the silence any longer, but it was almost as if his voice was sucked from his mouth.

Silence…

That all that there was, that, and endless emptiness. He walked, because that was all he could do. Walk and walk and walk. He never grew tired, he never became hungry, didn't need to go to the bathroom or have a nap. No matter how long he walked, he never became anything, because down here, he was nothing—just as the darkness was.

He didn't stop, couldn't seem to; he just wandered. He could never find anything; there was no rise or fall to the ground below, no barriers to block his path, no matter the direction. At one point, he had stopped, just for a second—not to sit or rest—but to see if he could feel the ground beneath his feet.

He squatted, his right hand reaching out slowly, with hesitance that he had never really experienced before—and he came up empty. He could tell that his hand was flat on the ground, but his finger tips couldn't fell the texture of it. It went the same with his clothes and his skin, even his hair; he knew that he was touching it, but he could never seem to feel it. He couldn't even feel his own breath against the palm of the hands, despite the fact the he knew he was breathing.

He also found that, as time wore on, that he didn't get any itches; didn't need to burp or cough or sneeze—he couldn't even fart. And for some reason, that was what he missed most at the moment, farting. Later, much later, Dean had found that he couldn't taste or smell either, that in the beginning he didn't taste or smell the air and his mind just unconsciously supplied those aspects because he needed something—anything.

It felt like there was no time at all, but he knew for a fact that it was passing—at what pace? Dean didn't know, but he thought about it all the time.

He tried to talk and to hum too, to try and fill the silence—but it was for naught. He was alone and that was his Hell. It was his worst fear and a nightmare that he feared would become real. All of his life, that was what he was afraid of, being left, abandoned, having no one there or near. This was his personal Hell, and he was damned to it for all of eternity.

His Hell was empty, and he was alone—and that was what reduced him to; nothing and nobody.

No one was around to define him, because Dean had always knew that he was never—had never, been his own person. He was just a creation of those around him. Up until he was four, he had been his own person, who he had wanted to be—he was himself. But after four, that wasn't the case. The music he liked, his clothes, the Impala, his mechanical skills—everything, it was all just a reflection of his father—even Hunting and being a good soldier.

_He_ was John Winchester, not Dean, no; he was John Winchester's son—there was no Dean Winchester, probably never was. He was nothing without anyone; he was alone and he was empty—even the air was more than he'd ever be.

And with all this emptiness, came the time that he didn't want, but there it was—that's all there ever was; the time to think. His thoughts and memories took rein over him, everything all at once, all the emotions coming to light. All the tragedies and all the horrors that he had ever witnessed or caused, coming up at once. He wanted to scream and he wanted to cry, he wanted to punch something. But there was nothing for him to punch, when he screamed there was silence, and he could feel the tears build up behind his eyes, but no matter how hard he tried, they would not fall.

30 years had passed, Dean didn't know this, but 30 years had passed. He had been in Hell for 30 years, wandering, suffering . . . all alone in the emptiness of Hell.

He wished that he would get tired, not about walking for all this time, but even it was his mind—because then, then he would feel something and that was all he needed. But there was nothing to feel and there was nothing to see, because this was Hell, and Hell was a place where people with bad souls go to pay for their sins, and damn if Dean's soul wasn't dark with taint.

Dean didn't look around him anymore, didn't try and find stone walls. The blackness was a constant, no matter where he looked, so he didn't look and there was still blackness—it was the same, but at least this way, he was an inch of numbness—that inch of his brain was shut down. It wasn't a lot and it didn't save him, but what harm could it really do?

It actually did do harm though, and that was why it took him over a year to notice it.

It was something out of focus and in the corner of his eye, it hung in the darkness. Almost as if it were a light at the end of the tunnel. He stopped short, turned, and stared at it blankly. He could see it, couldn't seem to focus his gaze—only having looked at dark emptiness for all that time.

Not knowing what else he could do, and finally having something to do; he started to walk toward the illusion. It was bright like a light and he was sure that the colour of the object was blue—a colour that he hadn't seen in forever. He walked, but as he did, he realized that the box of blue didn't seem to be getting any closer. He picked up the pace, but the blue just a stayed a blur. Dully he thought: _have I really been walking anywhere at all? _

If that were true, did that also mean that for all this time, for all of the walking that he had done, he hadn't moved sine the very beginning? That he'd just been walking in the same place? That his Hell was really in fact nothing because walking, going somewhere was something to do—but now there was nothing because he hadn't in fact been walking anywhere all this time?

He had been numb for all this time, had forced himself to be numb, but now he could feel despair well inside of him. Now he had truly realized the implications of the fact that he was going to be in this Hell forever and ever. He could feel the tears well behind his eyes, the ones that never fell. And the sob that built up inside his chest, like a bubble on the rise—the one that got stuck in his throat and would stay there because it didn't want to come out, just like everything else.

But he couldn't seem to stop walking, trying to move towards the blue. It was hope, and Dean found it in whatever the hell the blue-thing was. He knew that hope in this kind of situation was probably a bad thing, because if he thought that it was something and it wasn't, then that hope would come crashing down and he'd be broken. Because if this wasn't something, then what are the chances that there's going to be something else.

And just as soon it had changed; one step it was the blackness, empty and alone; the next, he could _see_. It was a cavern, still dark but somehow he could see. It wasn't dark anymore, there were rock walls and a dirt ground that had dips and lifts, there were rocks and it was light with an unknown light source. He could breath again, hear himself breathe, everything and right in front of him was a big blue box.

He stared at it; it looked just like a phone a booth, an old one, though it states that the top that it was a _Police Box_, so yeah, it was old. But Dean found that it was the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen.

He reached out, the tip of his fingers shaking slightly as he touched the wooden side. It was real, definitely real; he could feel the grain of the wood under his fingers. He let out a breath of relief, not realizing that he had been holding it, hoping. He squeezed his eyes shut, leaning his forehead against it, almost as if he could absorbed it into his mind. But he didn't want to do that; fearful that if he did he'd be shoved back into darkness, and that was the last thing that Dean wanted.

Time past and he didn't move, there was no way that he was going to move,—no way that he was going to lose contact with this little blue box—no way in Hell. He kept his eyes open too, never taking them from the blue, not letting it out of his sight—he didn't question it either, afraid that the truth might make it disappear.

He was so focused on that, that he stumbled back in shock when a tremor ran through the ground. He was even more so when he found that there was a big blooming cloud of dust, and from that dust a guy emerged at a run in a pinstriped suit and brown duster with a pair of tennis shoes. Dean stared, not able to believe that there was actually another Human down here in Hell with him.

The guy didn't even seem to notice Dean until he was a couple feet short and even then he had to skid into a stop so he didn't run into him.

The guy stared at Dean for a moment, his head cocked to the side. "Oh, I didn't realize that anyone else was done here." he had an accent.

Dean stared, his mouth opening and closing like a fish; too much in shock to form words.

The man looked at him. "Well, then," he said when Dean didn't speak. "You should probably get out of here, this whole place is gonna come down." he clapped Dean on the shoulder before slipping around him and to the front door of the blue box.

Dean stared at his shoulder for a second, not believe that he had been touched by another Human. He spun around just as quickly. "Wait!" he shouted with enough force to cause the other man to stop, his hand on the box's handle.

He looked at Dean, his brows raised.

"Who—? This is Hell." he stated dumbly.

"Yes,"

"You can't escape from Hell."

"Right, right." he nodded, but not in agreement. "You can escape from anywhere; you just have to think about it."

"Wha—who are you?" Dean could not believe how casual this guy was being.

"Oh! Well, I'm the Doctor, of course!" he chirped, a grin on his lips.

"The Doctor? Doctor who?" he asked in confusion.

"Just the Doctor."

"You name is a title?" Dean demanded, incredulous.

"And what's your's then, hm?" the Doctor asked, his tone not the least bit hurt.

"Dean Winchester," he said, making a gesture with his hands that said in wasn't important. "This is Hell." he said again, another tremor going through the ground.

"Yes, and as I said before, you should get out of here before it's too late."

"You can't escape from Hell."

"You can if you have the TARDIS."

"What the hell's a TARDIS."

"My spaceship," the Doctor clarified, giving the blue wood beneath his hand a pat.

Dean looked at the blue box. "That's a phone booth." he said as if it were obvious, and to him it was; this man was out of his mind—spaceships? Escaping from Hell?

"It's what's on the inside that counts." he said. "Why are you here, Dean Winchester?" the Doctor asked, his head tilted back slightly as he looked at Dean.

"It's Hell, isn't it obvious?" he asked.

"Well, you could be in here for any number of reasons." he reasoned.

"I sold my soul." Dean said truthfully, normally he would lock down like a prison but this was the first person that he had seen or talked to in god knows how long.

"Really?" the Doctor asked, his interest peeked. "What for?"

"To save my brother,"

"Huh," the Doctor took his hand from the TARDIS' handle and turned to Dean fully. "May I?" he asked, raising his hands slightly.

Dean looked at him in confusion. "Can you what?"

"Check."

"What? You think I'm lying?" Dean asked, kinda hurt at the thought.

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Well, I don't really see the point in that; I'm stuck in Hell."

"You could be here when you may not need to be." the Doctor reasoned, his hands still raised; waiting for an answer.

Dean stared at him, his mouth slightly open; what the hell was with this guy? And what did he mean? Of course he deserved to be here; he sold his soul to a Demon. "And how do you plan to do that?" he found himself saying.

"With you mind, of course."

"What are you, telepathic?"

The Doctor gave a one shoulder shrug. "Of course."

Dean stared at him; this guy was even crazier than he realized—if anything, this was the guy that needed a doctor. But he shrugged his shoulders, what did he have to hide? He was down here alone, and this was maybe his only chance, whether this guy was real or not.

"Go ahead."

The Doctor grinned at him, interested in what he'd find despite the fact that this place was coming down—this man was in Hell and he wanted to know why. He stepped forward and placed his hands on either side of Dean's head, staring him in the eyes. Dean stared back, unblinking and unmoving.

"Open your mind," the Doctor said, his voice smooth. "That's it."

Dean just raised a brow at that, pretty sure that he wasn't opening him mind up. But he didn't anymore so he gave a sigh and continued to look into the Doctor's brown eyes. Eyes that seemed old, way beyond how young the guy looked—even more so than Dean.

"Hm," the Doctor finally said. "You've been a busy man, Dean Winchester."

He didn't take his fingers away and Dean didn't shrug him off; the contact the least of his worries. "That's all?" he raised a brow.

"What did you expect?" the Doctor asked with a raised brow.

"I don't know," Dean shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Anything but what really happened."

"Well," the Doctor said. "I recon it's that brother of yours that should be down here instead of you."

"How can you say that?" it wasn't a demand, and he wasn't being defensive on Sam's part—he was actually curious.

"He is a Demon, is he not?"

"A Demon? No," Dean shook his head in denial. "I mean—I mean there was the Demon blood, but he stopped."

The Doctor didn't say anything, but just let Dean think what he needed to think.

This time Dean sighed heavily, his shoulder slumping. "I shoulda' known." Dean didn't know why he would trust a guy who called himself 'the Doctor' and who he met in Hell no less—but he could tell that the guy didn't lie. "So many ways to get in Hell, but none to get out."

"You're in denial, I believe." the Doctor comment dryly, finally taking his hands away from Dean's head.

"How'd you get down here anyway?" Dean asked, now just realizing that he didn't know.

"A crevasse."

Dean stared at him. "You can't fall down a hole and end up in Hell." he told him.

"Can't you?" the Doctor asked. "How did you come about Hell?"

Dean thought about it for a moment; remembered the falling into the darkness. "And what did you do?" he asked instead, referring to the tremors going through the ground.

"Oh, that's just Hell collapsing." he said nonchalant.

"Hell collaps—what?" Dean demanded. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm the Doctor," the Doctor stated, slightly confused.

"No. Who are you? _What_ are you?"

"Oh, just a Time Lord."

Dean's face pinched. "And what is that?"

"Just what it sounds like."

"Never mind." Dean let out a slow breath; this man was quickly becoming infuriating.

"Well, then. I'm off." the Doctor turned from Dean, back to the TARDIS, his hand on the handle, the door pushed an inch or two open.

Dean could see light shining through the crack; it was bright and hurt his eyes. "Wait," he said again.

The Doctor paused, but stayed where he was.

"Take me with you." Dean said, sure that he was begging, but didn't much care. "You said that I don't belong here so take me with you."

The Doctor looked at him for a long moment before he spoke, considering. "If you go, there's chance that your soul may not survive out of Hell."

Dean's lips twitched slightly. "It won't much matter if Hell collapses on top of me will it?"

The Doctor smiled back at him. "No rush, just 3 minutes, it is." and he disappeared inside the blue box, leaving the door wide open for Dean.

Dean sighed as he looked around him, chewing his bottom lip. Yep, going up in a spaceship and dying permanently was definitely better than being stuck in a collapsed Hell. Better yet, going up in a spaceship and surviving was better so. So yes, he'd chance it. And he'd rather be dead-dead, as there's nothing dead, then being dead and trapped in Hell.

He walked over to the front of the TARDIS and looked inside the open door, his eyes widening. There was no way in Hell that this was the inside of a phone booth, no way. This was the inside of a spaceship, from a television show or something. He slowly stepped inside and found that the Doctor was that the center consol, pulling a bunch of levers. He closed the door behind him and the tubes at the center came together.

The Doctor looked up at him, yanking at a lever that seemed to get stuck for a second, before coming free. "Ready to escape the bounds of Hell, Dean Winchester?" he asked as the whole TARDIS started to shake and whir.

All Dean could think in that moment was how crazy this guy was and why the hell he was going through with this.

_f_


End file.
